


birdcage

by caleco



Series: Sansan One-Shots [6]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Angst, Dark!Jon, Dark!Sansa, F/M, Inspired by DCU, One Shot, Slight Smut, mainly just angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-16
Updated: 2020-11-16
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:34:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27586820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caleco/pseuds/caleco
Summary: Detective Sandor Clegane begins with a tepid agreement with a bat; he ends up with a complicated arrangement with a bird.
Relationships: Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark
Series: Sansan One-Shots [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1697629
Comments: 6
Kudos: 42





	birdcage

**Author's Note:**

> Here’s yet another long one-shot while I have way too many WIPs in progress!
> 
> I’ve been getting back into reading comics lately and really had this interest in the ‘bat-family’ from the DCU comics, and really thought that dysfunctional family would fit well as the Starks! I will warn you: my DCU knowledge is limited to Teen Titans, so I am ONLY using the names (Batman, Robin, Gotham, etc) and none of the storylines save for the Stark kids being orphaned. Everything else is me taking my own ridiculous liberties.
> 
> I also really wanted to write SanSan with a different dynamic. Instead of a strong, protector Sandor, I really wanted the roles switched. And I’ve been dying to do a superhero AU, and Jon makes the perfect brooding Batman, doesn’t he?
> 
> As always, thank you all so much for reading!! I love your comments!

He’d figured it out just a few months ago.

They didn’t call him a hound because he was nice. They didn’t call him a hound because he was intelligent. Hell, they didn’t even call him a hound because he _looked_ like one, even though he definitely fit the bill.

They called him that because he was a damn good detective, the best that Gotham could ever hope to have. They’d seen detectives come and go, some too shaken to continue, some rolling out in body bags. But he stayed- a loyal hound, guaranteed not to bite the hand that fed him. He was fucked in all other categories, way beyond redemption for any other occupation. He didn’t do it because it was right. He did it because he couldn’t imagine doing anything else.

He was a nosy fucker. He wanted to know things, to figure it out. _To control it,_ a court-ordered therapist once told him, but he’d scoffed at that shit and buried it down with a bottle of cheap bourbon and too many cigarettes that night.

That was why he was one of the only people to figure out the bat’s identity.

It wasn’t confirmed- he hadn’t seen him take off the damned cowl, but he _knew_ it, knew it more than any other information he’d uncovered before. He would’ve bet his life on it, had it come down to it.

He’d been investigating a series of murders down at the docks. It was a nasty one, with the bodies barely identifiable, crushed to a pulp under a force he couldn’t fathom. Sandor had seen the markings on the bodies, the deep claw marks all over it, separating flesh from bone, and he’d known they were dealing with a super-abled.

_Super-abled._ It was the politically correct term. Giantsbane had gotten onto him one too many times for cursing _mutant_ under his breath, for offending the press, making another blonde, wisp of a woman gasp as they filmed the morning’s news. As if he reported to them.

The mutants brought nothing but chaos into the city. He’d call them whatever the fuck he pleased, with how often he was helping track them down, sniffing them out like a bloodhound. He had a knack for it, which was why Giantsbane kept slipping him files they kept on the down-low. 

Except, of course, for the bat.

The press didn’t see the nasty side of all that, the chaos they left in their wake. Sandor had to clean it up, had to play cover up crew so the man could continue playing dress-up. It would’ve infuriated him if he wasn’t so damn curious. No, not curious. Obsessed.

It was just a perfect coincidence this time. 

The bodies had been found just outside a huge freighter for Stark Enterprises, strewn about almost symbolically. He’d gone straight to the monarch of the business, right up to the pearly front doors of the Stark mansion. He’d rapped his fingers against that huge door, had scowled at the sprawling gothic design and matched the faces of the gargoyles flanking it. He’d spat in the pristine rose bushes outside, hoping Catelyn Stark was rolling in her million-dollar grave. 

He wasn’t a fan of the Starks.

Jon Snow hadn’t always been the head of the business. There was a history there, something that even Sandor didn’t know, despite his trying. There were rumors thrown about, whispered in dark alleyways in the dirtiest parts of town. He liked those whispers best, but he wasn’t sure if they were correct.

He was, however, sure that Jon Snow was the Batman.

Sandor fucking hated the name. It was ridiculous, some stupid thing a child could make up. The press loved him, ate up every morsel of a story thrown their way when it had to do with the _hero_ . They were always desperately trying to put a name to him, to pin an identity to the human behind the dark cowl. And they settled for the fucking _Batman._

Sandor had seen him snap a man’s back over his knee in one smooth, calculated motion. He’d seen him break necks without so much as a glance, seen him almost _play_ with those he found guilty. He wasn’t a hero any more than Sandor himself was. 

It wasn’t that Sandor judged him- no, if he were super-abled, he’d be a fucking monster, too. Gods knew most of those men deserved his wrath, but Sandor knew some of them didn’t. Some of them were just in the wrong place at the wrong time, stumbling into something they shouldn’t have.

The media didn’t know that side of the bat. They were blinded by the elaborate show of justice, roaring for the man behind the mask to kill more of those they deemed guilty.

As quiet as Jon Snow was, as moody and brooding as the tabloids painted him to be, Sandor still wasn’t sure if he ever would’ve figured it out on his own.

“What?” The man said, running a hand over the stubble collecting on his chin, glaring out into the mid-morning sun that was flanking Sandor.

He had some maroon robe on, slung hastily over his shoulders and barely tied at the waist. It’d probably cost more than all of Sandor’s suits combined.

Sandor just flashed his badge, scowling down at the short, stocky man.

“Why?” Snow grumbled, the distaste clear on his face.

“Someone left you a present down at the shipyard.” Sandor told him, his temper already flaring. A typical ultra-rich, snooty type. _I can get away with anything I want_ type.

But to his surprise, Snow looked almost taken aback, the indifference wiped clean off his handsome face, replaced with a furrowed brow.

“Need to ask you some questions.” He continued, but Snow was looking elsewhere now, deep in thought.

After a moment, he met his eyes again, his face clearly troubled.

“Yeah, yeah. Of course.” He gave in, cracking open the door to the Stark family mansion. 

It wasn’t what Sandor had been expecting. 

Everything was covered in sheets, collecting dust in the dim light. The place had an eerie feel to it, and almost somber, heavy sigh left in the air. The windows were mostly covered with dark shutters, the place lit by the few slivers in between. He glanced up the huge staircase when Snow was shutting the door, trying to see deeper into the house, that damned _curiosity_ in him again.

Didn’t they have a maid, a butler or some shit? They had more than enough of a fortune left behind for one.

When Ned and Catelyn Stark passed, the entire city had mourned. They were good people, good enough that even Sandor could admit that. They gave their all for Gotham, investing in charities and education, hosting dozens of fundraiser balls a year. He’d even been to a few, on the insistence of his boss and chief of police. Despite all the whispers that ran rampant through the city, Sandor hadn’t heard one bad thing about the Stark parents.

They were good people, but they raised shit kids.

Snow sighed behind him, and Sandor looked behind him just in time to hear little footsteps coming down the hallway beside them. They were quiet little taps, echoing in the empty, silent house.

“There’s my alibi.” Snow said snidely, throwing a hand out to the lady trying to scurry past them. She had a man’s button-down shirt on, her hair a hastily thrown-up mess. Sandor faintly remembered her as some financial-something for the city.

She turned scarlet at Snow’s words, muttering a quiet goodbye to the unphased man as she all but ran through the front doors.

“So you were here all last night?” Sandor asked again, fighting the urge to snarl. He didn’t have time for cocky boy millionaires- he had, probably, about twenty-four hours to find the thread for this case before the killer tried his hand at a repeat. 

“Obviously.” Snow scoffed. “And even if I wasn’t, why would I murder right in front of my family’s ships? Seems a bit messy.”

“Protocol questions.” He shot back. “Any idea who would want to do that?”

“Yes, lots of people. It comes with the Stark name.” Snow pointed out.

“This one was…. “ Sandor weighed his words, thinking of the missing limbs, the sharp cuts, the bits of gore strewn about the harbor for hundreds of feet. 

“Particularly nasty.” He decided on.

“Ah.” Was all Snow said, that same queer look on his face, like his mind was far away. He masked it quickly, that signature, brooding scowl back on in an instant. Sandor had learned quickly, once he really started in the field years ago, that half of detective work was in reading people.

Snow knew a lot more than he’d let on.

But by the hard look in his eyes, he wasn’t about to show it.

\-------------------

He’d given up on Snow at that point, at least for the time being. At that point, he still hadn’t connected the dots, still hadn’t guessed what _hobbies_ the man took up at night.

It wasn’t until he saw the man slip through the front doors of the precinct that his curiosity truly piqued.

The case had gnawed at him all the rest of the day, driving around to various shops near the shipyard, talking to the workers out at the dock. All dead ends, all confused looks. He wasn’t getting shit from anyone, and the fact that Snow looked like he’d known _something_ that morning had just sat in the pit of his stomach, growing sour by the minute.

But then the man had shown up on the front doorstep of the precinct, a shiny, expensive suit highlighting his lean form, and that signature look of disinterest highlighting the nastiness underneath.

The precinct was a mess, agents and officers moving about in the mid-afternoon buzz, hundreds of people in between Sandor, on the second floor, and Snow at the entrance. Sandor drew closer to the huge floor-to-ceiling windows that cornered his office, hoping Snow wouldn’t spot him in the crowd around him.

But Snow didn’t seem phased by the chaos. If anything, he melted into it- the precinct hardly paid him any heed, and he dipped through the crowd, knowing exactly where he was going.

He stepped into the glass elevator, punching a few buttons. He smoothed back his dark, shoulder-length locks, his shoulders set into hard lines. 

He must have felt the detective’s gaze, finally, because his eyes shot up to meet him.

Sandor didn’t nod, didn’t mouth any message. He just kept his stare, let him know he was watching.

Snow didn’t seem phased by that, either.

The elevator kept going, up and up and up, far past Sandor’s own floor. The tower was a beast of a building, hosting all divisions of the police and some emergency services. Finally, the elevator stopped at the tenth floor, and that was what _really_ piqued Sandor’s interest.

That was the floor for the chief of police. His boss, Giantsbane, had a big office up there, one that Sandor had sat in many times, grumbling about the details of various cases. He’d almost call him his friend, at this point, if Sandor had the decency to have any acquaintances.

He was a damn good police chief, too, despite his humorous attitude. And why Jon Snow was meeting with him, Sandor wanted to know.

He sat back down at his desk after a few more moments of waiting. He thumbed through the case left open, looking back over the fuzzy camera footage from the shipyard, trying to keep his mind away from what he really wanted to know. His eyes kept drifting back to the elevator, watching closely for the dark haired man to come back down.

It was a good thirty minutes before he did, and this time, he was the one to stare down into Sandor’s office, trying to meet his gaze. He looked exactly the same as he did going up, which wasn’t a surprise. But it was then that Sandor noticed the leather suitcase at his side, tucked carefully away, half-hidden behind his form. 

He wasn’t trying to hide it- no, quite the opposite. He was trying to make sure Sandor’s eyes were drawn to it.

His elevator hit the bottom floor, and Snow drifted back into the crowd, as if he had never even been there.

\------------------

It was later that night that he finally figured it out.

Giantsbane had given him a new stack of leads not long after Snow had left, which had Sandor working well into the evening, trying to piece all the parts together, like a complicated, intricate little web of crime.

Pictures taken at a nearby kebob shop, a few blocks away from the shipyard- a man in a long coat, his head tilted away from the cameras. Hood up, shoulders slumped, hands in pockets. He would’ve dismissed it had it not been for the time- a little after two am, just before the murders took place, on an empty stretch of street. If the man wasn’t the murderer, he must’ve at least _heard_ it happen.

Seven people total, mutilated and torn to shreds. He would’ve heard something.

Another thing set him off, but he pushed that down, too. There were plenty of giant fuckers in the city, and it was just his paranoia getting to him yet again.

It was just one shitty image from the half-dead shop camera, handed over by the owner that had already been on edge with officers in his shop. It could’ve very well been nothing.

He’d gone out to the kebab shop anyways, slinking himself back into the shadows, hoping to catch a glimpse of something. Anything, really, that could lead him back towards the case. He’d found himself a quiet little place, right by a rusty garbage dump that had him holding his breath. It was right around the corner, hidden in the shadows.

He’d been at the bottom of his thermos, a belly full of black coffee, when a shadow darted across the lit-up end of the alleyway.

Sandor had immediately shot up, his hand on the gun at his belt- but he quickly realized he was still alone in the alleyway, the city quiet around him. There was only the sound of the shipyards a few blocks away, the waves rocking gently against the shore. Nothing was amiss.

H’de thought for a moment, then looked up.

_No fucking way._ He’d told himself immediately, running a hand over his tired face. He needed some good fucking sleep if he thought someone could’ve made that jump between the buildings. The rooftops were at least three stories above him, a good ten foot of space between them.

A human couldn’t have made that jump.

But a super-human? Perhaps.

He changed his mind quick at that thought.

Sandor ran after the direction of the shadow, following the storefronts, trying to make his footsteps as quiet as possible. His heart had been racing, threatening to jump from his chest- he knew it was fucking stupid, chasing after a mutant that could probably rip him to shreds, but he couldn’t not do it. It was that same damned compulsion, that same need to _know._

Besides. He’d yet to find one that was _completely_ bulletproof.

He realized after a moment that the trail was cold- there was no one on the rooftops, no dark shadows for as far as he could see. The streets around him were eerily quiet, the slums of the city asleep, resting for the morning that would come.

He cursed under his breath, before a solid _thump_ behind him had him turning on his heel.

He had his gun out in an instant, pointing straight into the chin of the Batman.

“That’s not very nice.” The mask said, the voice artificially lowered, unable to place.He was a few heads shorter than Sandor himself, but his chest was broad, threatening, flexing with each breath under the monster of a suit he wore. Sandor hadn’t even seen half the contraptions he had in that thing, but he wasn’t willing to find out now. 

His cowl covered most of his face, his eyes covered by the shadow of the helm on his brow. He could’ve been anyone, really.

But Sandor had already put the pieces together, as soon as the words were out of his mouth.

He was breathing heavy, his adrenaline still running high from the thought of claws dug deep into his back.

“Seriously?” He grumbled after a moment. “You, of all people?”

“Ah.” Snow said, his voice a low growl. “Tormund said you’d probably figure it out.”

“Anyone could. You’ve been making yourself pretty fucking obvious.” Sandor settled on, watching the small, cocky smirk twist the man’s lips. The dark cowl he wore left only his mouth to the air, the rest of his face- including the dark, telltale curls, covered completely. 

“Then why hasn’t anyone else figured it out?” 

Sandor scoffed at that. _Because people are fucking stupid, too._

Looking back, it seemed obvious. Billionaire playboy with far too much time, far too much money- but the motive still hadn’t clicked yet. He’d pinned an identity, finally, but that was about all he had.

“You know because I _let_ you know.” Snow said, the cocky tone gone from his voice, a dark tone back into his words. He moved the gun away from his face, strong, superhuman muscles rippling under the bat suit, forcing Sandor to stand down. Sandor bristled at it, his first instinct to push back.

But he’d seen a lot of fights between the bat and those he deemed guilty. Or, more accurately, he’d seen the _aftermath._

So he kept his argument to himself, swallowing down his pride.

“I know who murdered the people in the shipyards. It’s someone I’ve been tracking for years, someone my brother tracked for years before me.”

_Ah._ Robb Stark. The original bat, Sandor assumed. It made sense- up close, the man before him was shorter than the bat Sandor had dealt with years before. Before the years of hiatus, where the city was scrambling for a sighting of the bat again, a good omen for the future of the city.

It came back eventually, but it seemed that Jon Snow had taken over that helm in his brother’s wake.

“You’re going to give me the information I can’t get my hands on.” Snow said simply, his tone unwavering.

“And what’s in it for me?” Sandor shot back, though he’d already made up his mind. It was still about following that thread of information, regardless of who was feeding it to him. The man in front of him smiled tightly, the unnatural look sending off red flags in Sandor’s mind, sending a small chill down his spine.

“What we both want. Justice.”

\-------------------------

That was how Sandor Clegane found himself with a visitor in his apartment, almost a year after that night.

They never found the man Snow was tracking. Despite his insistence, Snow only gave him the information he saw vital, tiny trickles of knowledge about the dark networks that ran through Gotham. It drove Sandor half mad, left him drinking more nights than not, seething and bitter. It set them both on edge, though Snow kept his anger under his skin, bubbling at the surface but contained nonetheless.

Sandor didn’t. Sandor went back to the gym, more and more, just to feel his fists hitting something solid.

There hadn’t been a repeat murder spree, as Sandor had expected. There hadn’t been _anything._

But Snow knew how to keep him hooked. Sandor didn’t belong to anyone, and he never would, he told himself- not even Giantsbane, the boss he actually respected, not even the police, not even the city. He belonged to himself, and it would stay that way until he died, and then he’d probably fuck off into some afterlife where he could continue it.

But Snow had him wrapped around his finger, and knew just how to press his buttons. He kept him coming back, kept Sandor feeding a string of information on lower-level criminals in the city. 

He’d found out, over time, information he knew he could never tell another soul. Most of it was wrapped up tightly in the Stark family, but he learned about other things, too- the mysterious deaths of some of his colleagues, the alter-egos of some high-up figureheads in the city, the dirty underbelly of the city’s underground. 

And, above all that, he learned more about the Stark family.

Snow still wouldn’t tell him what had happened to the four other Stark children. He’d found that Robb had taken the helm not long after his parents’ untimely death. There was some break between then, a time where Sandor couldn’t pin down the locations of practically any Starks, except for Snow. Snow didn’t like talking about it, and he never so much as mentioned the other three family members.

But there was still one that had ultimately puzzled him the most.

Sansa Stark was someone he’d always known, in some way or another. 

He’d never talked to her. He’d never so much as looked in her direction. He’d attended the Stark fundraising balls when she was just a teenager, had sulked around in her family’s mansion after Giantsbane had insisted the police force show up, had even heard some of his tactless colleagues gossip about some story they’d read about her in a tabloid. She was on the periphery of his work, a member of the family that was always showing up somewhere.

She’d grown up. She’d gotten more beautiful, more like her mother Catelyn, a tall, slender figure. A head of fiery red hair, stark against pale, ivory skin. By all accounts, one of the most beautiful women in Gotham. 

She was dating the mayor’s son before she’d left the city, a sniveling little cunt named Joffrey. He’d heard as much over the years. But he couldn’t give two shits- he’d always been more focused on the head of the family business, and after finding out the bat’s identity, on her half-brother. 

She’d left sometime after their parents passed, well after Robb took up the identity of the bat. Probably to travel the world, like some spoiled rich girl trying to cope with loss for the first time in her life.

But then the first reports came across his desk one day. Another way she slipped into his periphery, there but not there. A blink-or-you-miss-it.

There was a woman accompanying the bat now. A tall, slender woman, in a sleek black catsuit, a similar bat helm on her face. The journalist’s pictures had been shit, but Sandor had stared nonetheless.

He laughed at first. Weak, vapid little Sansa Stark. Head of the tabloids, always wearing some new fancy dress by some new fancy designer and creating ritzy little fundraisers that reeked of careless money. 

But then he’d been back on the trail, funneling more information and police reports to Snow, and he stopped laughing.

Whatever made the Starks strong, gave them that inhuman strength and stamina, clearly hadn’t skipped the bird. But she was more flexible, more limber and clean. Like a little acrobat, with some sort of birdlike grace that defied his normal mutant logic.

He cleaned up after her for the first time, not too long after that newspaper crossed his desk. He’d been trailing that cartel case on the side for years, and she and her half-brother had practically set fire to the place. It wasn’t pretty.

She looked the perfect example of a breakable, frail thing.

When she showed up on the balcony of his apartment, perched on the railing, her feet swinging beneath her, he had to remind himself of the cartel bust.

“I take it your friend sent you.” He said simply, sliding open the door to the balcony.

Snow always showed up at odd hours, silently creeping on his balcony. Lucky for him, Sandor never really slept anymore. He was always awake, pondering over something, his head buried into a case.

He’d never had _her_ show up, though.

“He said we can trust you.” She said simply, her voice clear and pretty, all the graceful little bird she seemed to be. 

“It’s inside.” He said gruffly, blinking his eyes away from the image of her long, long legs, dangling over the edge of his balcony. 

It was a long drop, four stories below. He wasn’t sure if she’d splatter on the pavement.

He went back in, his fingers skating over the files strewn about his living room. He’d known Snow would be wanting more information soon- he’d been able to track the man he was looking for, narrowing his location down to the neighboring city.

The man had been getting lax. They’d tapped into one of his calls, knowing just where to look this time, guessing from all his past movements. He was getting predictable, but Snow seemed to think he was just toying with them, waiting for them to take the bait.

Grasping a manilla folder, he felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up, and he whipped around, finding the girl standing a few paces behind him.

“ _Fuck,”_ He cursed, her presence catching him off-guard. She must’ve snuck in behind him, so quiet even he couldn’t hear her.

“My bad.” She said simply, crossing her arms over her chest. “It’s a bit chilly outside.”

Up close, he could see her much clearer- the slight smattering of freckles on her nose, that disappeared under the dark mask that covered her eyes and forehead. It was covered there with a thin mesh, but he knew what he’d see under there- Tully blue eyes.

And her lips. Red, full lips.

“Those the files?” She said after a moment, and those tempting lips had twisted into something akin to a smirk, one corner tilting up.

He scowled at her, knowing he’d been caught. He shoved the files in her direction, hoping she’d get the fuck out of his apartment.

He had important things to do, like drink himself into a stupor and reminisce yet again about his past mistakes.

She made a small noise in the back of her throat, an interested tone as she flipped open the file, her red-painted fingernails flipping through the pictures. And then, to his horror, she settled down into his armchair, perched there as if she owned the place.

He cleared his throat.

“Oh, my bad.” She said, a not-quite-sheepish grin on her face. “I thought I’d rest a moment.”

Sandor didn’t have the fight in him to argue. Part of him complained, part of him secretly reveled in it- it’d been a while since he’d had a woman in his apartment, and never one like her. She had one leg thrown over the other, the dark red and black leather suit pulling against her curves _just right-_

_Stop being so goddamn weak,_ he seethed at himself. 

“This is good. This is _really_ good.” She said after a moment, that sly look off her face and replaced with one of sincerity.

Sandor wasn’t sure if he could formulate a good response yet, so he just gave her a grunt and busied himself with the glass cup on the table in front of him.

“I don’t think he’s quite back in the city yet, by the looks of this. Just biding his time on the outskirts, if I had to guess.” She continued, her mask furrowed as the brows underneath moved. He wondered how it looked underneath.

“We’d know if he was.” Sandor finally spoke up, his voice pathetically raspy. 

“He’s waited long enough.” She added, the long, red ponytail slipping over one shoulder as she appraised him.

He wished he could see her eyes underneath. He could see her mouth, see it twisting into emotions when she talked to him, but he didn’t know how her eyes narrowed, how her brows furrowed, how her face lit up. Yet again, he was left wanting to _know_ , but this time it felt wrong.

_Nasty old dog._ She was in her late twenties, yeah, but he’d already started seeing the few strands of grey in his hair, feeling the ache after a hard workout for more than a few days. He was nearing forty at this point, and wasn’t getting any fucking younger.

Besides. She was fucking Sansa Stark.

She rose up suddenly, forcing his eyes to follow the curve of her suit up, up her long legs and to the rest of her. He found that same, knowing smirk on her face.

“Good work, Sandor.” His name on her tongue made him almost-hard in a second, and he was left feeling even worse.

He grunted, not wanting to look at her again.

“See you next time,” She said simply as she let herself out. He forced himself to look the other way, not trusting himself not to follow the curve of her ass as she walked. 

He heard a _whoosh_ as she leapt from his balcony. He didn’t hear a peep after that, so he supposed she didn’t splatter on concrete that easy.

He downed the rest of his whisky, forcing himself to think unpleasant thoughts to wipe her from his memory. He thought of crime scenes, of blood and guts strewn about, of that nasty scene from a year ago.

It didn’t help.

\-------------------

The next time, it turned out, wasn’t that much later.

He hadn’t spoken to Snow in a few days, which left him more on-edge. He assumed he would’ve heard if their target had crossed into Gotham, with the rest of the undercover agents in the underbelly, but he couldn’t be sure. The mutant had gotten into the shipyards somehow, and Sandor was sure he could sneak in again.

But Sansa showed up a week later, casually smoking on his balcony.

He took her in first, the image he’d been pathetically creating in the shower not doing her any justice. He just had to get it out of his system, he told himself.

But then he noticed the little stick between her fingers, the billows of smoke seeping from her blood-red lips.

“Hope you don’t mind.” She said, that same soft smirk on her features.

“Those mine?” He grumbled, not finding it in himself to be angry.

“Yep. You left them on the table out here, so I figured it was an offering.” Sansa tossed back, a flash of white teeth as she grinned.

His mind immediately went to _another_ kind of offering, but he pushed that away as fast as he could.

He needed Snow back. Snow didn’t give him these thoughts.

Thinking a cigarette would help cool him down, he slipped one from the packet she had beside her. A drag later, he felt better, a little more calm.

“Did he get in the city?” He asked after a pause, his eyes surveying over the cityscape in front of him. He had an alright view, his investigator position giving him a few good perks. It wasn’t anything to write home about, and it wasn’t on the safest side of town, but it gave him an odd connection to Gotham, something he’d fed over time.

“Not yet. I have a friend tailing him in New York.” She admitted, her lips settling into a pout.

Sandor frowned at that. “New York? That’s further than he was last time.”

“Could be drawing us out.” She offered, taking another long drag of her cigarette before blowing it into the breeze. She uncrossed her legs, making his eyes dart away quickly.

“My brother doesn’t let me smoke.” Sansa said suddenly, and the statement made Sandor look towards her sharply, only to find her looking back at him, her mask hiding whatever she was truly thinking. He hadn’t been sure that Snow had told her how much he knew yet.

“Don’t worry. He told me you know about us.” She said, nodding slightly. 

“Ah.” He said simply, his fingers itching for another cig already. She took that as all she could get from him, and went back to pondering the skyline, her legs stretched out before her.

He felt awkward, feeling that he should say more, so he added, “Why not?”

“It’s not healthy.” She scoffed. “He’s a fucking health nut, won’t even let me have alcohol or dessert in the mansion. It’s ridiculous.”

Hearing her curse sent a pleasant tingle down his spine, like he was seeing some side of her he wasn’t allowed to. The media had picked up her story quickly, and she had become some sort of idol to them- the batman was beloved by Gotham, a picture of masculinity and strength, but she was something else. A little robin, they called her, with her dark red and pitch-black suit, her long mane of fiery hair. The little girls loved her, the feminists idolized her, and he’d heard more than a few younger policemen salivating over her at press conferences. 

And he got to hear the precious bird be rather undignified.

“Sounds like a shit way to live.” He grumbled after a moment.

She laughed at that, tilting her head back, exposing the long, pearly expanse of skin. He crushed his cigarette into the ashtray with a little too much force.

“He says we have to be the _pinnacle of health_ for Gotham.” Sansa said, and he could almost picture her rolling her eyes underneath that mask.

“Doesn’t matter if you always wanna die inside.” He added, hoping to see her grin.

She did, and he hated the way it made his stomach clench.

“Ah, I knew I’d like you, with how Jon described you.” She said, a wicked grin on her face. 

He looked out onto the cityscape, not wanting to meet her brilliant smile. He didn’t know how to respond to that, either. 

He decided now was the best time to give her the new file he’d amassed. It wasn’t much, just him skimming a few things at work, sliding them under the radar. But it was going to have to be enough, for now.

“I’ll look over these later.” She said, patting them gently. “Now, Sandor, I haven’t given you anything for this information.”

He stilled at those words, his mind going to a place he definitely did not want to go, not in front of her. 

“What would you like to know?” She finished her sentence, and by the small twist of her lips, she’d known exactly what she was doing.

He thought for a moment, trying to pick one of the many questions he’d amassed over the past weeks. There were too many to count at this point, and so he picked the first one that came to mind.

“Where did you go, when you went off the grid?” He asked.

For once, she looked taken aback instead of him; she stilled, one hand curling around the railing of his balcony, her mouth in a straightened line.

She thought for a moment, and though he couldn’t see through her mask, he could feel her eyes on him, trying to figure him out. Just like he did to her.

He thought about taking it back, of saying _nevermind,_ but he stood his ground. 

“I wanted to fight alongside Robb.” Sansa said finally, the humor gone from her voice. “He wouldn’t let me, so I ran away. I-”

Her voice cracked, an odd half-laugh in her words.

“I joined the circus.”

She waited for his response, but he just gave a grunt. It was surprising, of course, but he knew she was expecting something different from him, and he was determined not to give it to her.

“It was the only place where I could use my abilities, and I needed a way to get by. I was just pissed at Robb, really. But then one day I get the call from Jon, telling me he’d been killed.”

She looked back onto the cityscape, far away, to some corner of the city he couldn’t place.

Her words are still strong, though, and she doesn’t cry. They’re heavy, but she stands unburdened.

“Then I went to Russia.” She continues, and he waits for more, but there’s a small smile on her lips now. She’s back in control, and after the somber tone that had taken over her a moment before, he’s okay with that.

At his grunt of annoyance, she grins.

“To know _what_ I was doing will cost you another question.”

She taps the manilla folder in front of her. 

“And it looks like you’re out of questions, for now.”

\----------------------

The third time she visits is when everything changes.

It’s only a few nights later, so he doesn’t have to wait as long as last time. He didn’t spend as much time searching for more information for them- he uncovered another picture, taken outside some shitty shop in South Bronx, but he mainly focuses his time outside work to looking her up.

She’s squeaky clean, her record surely wiped. He couldn’t find anything on her, not even a picture from some sketchy site in Russia. For all accounts, once she left the circus, she left the planet.

It bugs him, eats at him, but he’s just saving up for more questions.

When she shows up, she’s almost glowing tonight. He can’t put his finger on it, can’t understand it, but she’s buzzing, almost, like she’s shining from within.

She looks over his files, this time curled up safely in his armchair again, and then she folds it up, slides it back onto the coffee table between them. He raises an eyebrow, hoping she wasn’t displeased with the information. He’s not sure if he can wait another week or so without a question.

“Will you fuck me?” She says simply, as if she’s talking about the weather.

He blinks at her, the words not quite registering to him. He knows it’s wrong, knows he should say no, knows there’s a chance Snow is sitting on his balcony, waiting to beat the shit out of him based on his response. But there’s a part of him that rejoices in the insanity, saying _dear fucking god yes._

“Sorry, I know that’s a bit upfront.” She grins, uncrossing her legs so she can rest her elbows on her knees, almost as if she were talking up a business deal. “I’m just very interested, is all.”

“Are you fucking blind, too?” The harsh words come out of his mouth before he can stop it, but to his surprise, she laughs.

“No, no- I can see fine through this mask. Actually, I can see _very_ well through it.” She takes a pointed look down his body, and for a moment, he feels like he’s being hunted.

It’s ridiculous. She’s a few heads shorter than him, barely reaching his armpit, and he probably had a solid hundred-fifty pounds on her, at least. 

“Is that a no, then?” She says after a moment, a slight pout on her features. It’s still teasing, because she fucking _knows._ She knows he won’t turn her down.

He knows it’s not professional, knows it’s not a good idea, but she’s been on his mind for weeks now, been practically haunting him, and he has to know, has to know what she feels like, what she tastes like, what she looks like.

“ _Fuck,”_ He groans. “Okay.”

She’d been waiting for that one- she all but leaped on him, her slender thighs flanking his massive form as she kissed him for the first time.

It wasn’t what he’d expected. He hadn’t quite figured out how she’d kissed- he’d pictured himself fucking her, eating her out, bending her over every piece of furniture he owned, but never kissing her. He never let himself entertain that thought.

She wasn’t all teeth, wasn’t teasing him. She was kissing him deeply, hungrily, as if she’d been wanting it just as much as he had. As if she’d known him forever.

He groaned when her thighs squeezed against him, and he could feel that strength she was holding back, right below the surface.

 _Gods._ He wasn’t sure if he was ready for that, which made him feel like some teenage girl. He was a man, a fucking giant one at that.

But when she ground down _hard_ against him, her own hips stuttering as she drew the motion out, he had to tilt his head back and growl to the ceiling. She giggled, the teasing little sound just driving him on more.

And when she slipped down, down to the floor, he knew he was done for. He knew the pathetic daydreams of her wouldn’t stop, he knew the incessant searching wouldn’t stop, knew he’d always have questions for her. He’d thought maybe a taste would quell that need, had used the flimsy excuse for his reasoning on saying yes, but when her mouth closed around him, he knew it was all a goddamn lie.

\---------------------

She was sprawled in his bed, those sheets tangled around her body, the black stark against her pearly skin. He couldn’t stop looking at her, couldn’t take his eyes away from it, and he knew he was fucked.

He was sorely fucked in other ways, too. His body ached, like he’d been to the gym and busted his ass for hours. He already had bruises on his hips, nail marks down his back. He knew she was holding back, keeping that strength from really hurting him, but when she’d finally came, grinding hard against his length inside her, she’d clamped her thighs down _hard._

He’d came at that. He was beginning to wonder if he was some kind of masochist, which made him even more ashamed of himself.

She had her little communicator in the palm of her hand, her face tucked into his pillow as she dozed for a second. She shifted, baring her face to him again.

She still wore the mask.

That had been an odd insistence, something he couldn’t quite pin down. It launched a whole other list of questions in his head. Her insistence to keep it on didn’t seem like some inherently kinky thing- her face had dropped, her mouth in a hard line, and she’d shaken her head. He left it alone, though he couldn’t understand why she’d keep it on, when he already knew exactly who she was.

“Shit,” She whispered, quickly getting untangled from him and the sheets. She slipped into her discarded uniform, a frown on her face.

“Important?” He grumbled, still feeling exhausted. She seemed unphased, though, and the dark marks peppering her neck and chest were already healing, turning quickly into a mottled grey and green. 

“Yep. Jon’s gonna kill me if I’m late.” Sansa said, pulling her mane of hair back into a controlled tail. She stretched, letting out a satisfied noise. 

“I’m all ready to go now.” She said cheekily, a little spring in her step that made Sandor scowl.

_Fucking mutants._

“See you next time.” Sansa gave him a quick wink, leaving the same way she waltzed in.

He, ashamedly, stayed in bed while she left, not sure if his legs were stable enough to walk on yet. He was content to stare at the ceiling, wondering how the fuck he was going to get himself out of this one.

\--------------

It became a habit.

At first, it was just a second fuck, nothing else. She was on him again, and he couldn’t tell her no. It would just be a two-time thing, he told himself. Nothing more. 

And then it became a three-time thing, and a four, and a five, and then it just became a goddamn habit.

She was showing up on his balcony much more than once or twice a week, and he began to worry he’d see Snow on his balcony, ready to _talk._ With how controlling he was about Sansa staying in tip-top superhero shape, he wasn’t sure he’d like her sleeping around with an old, sour detective.

But Sansa, on the other hand, seemed to love it.

He’d had her on his dinner table, the other night, licking at her until she’d all but screamed, and then burying himself at the hilt when she was so, so close. She had him acting like a fucking _teenager_ again, dreaming up new things they could try. Not only that, but he’d had to adapt rather quickly to a mutant’s stamina, and it more-often-than-not left him reeling for days.

He fucking loved it. He wouldn’t tell her that, though. He knew he was nothing to her, knew he was to her just what everyone else saw him as: a loyal dog. He’d be discarded someday, and he decided that was worth it, but he wasn’t going to lose his pride in the battle, either.

He kept feeding her information. Their talks got shorter and shorter as their fucking got longer and longer, their focuses changed. He kept getting his questions, too, but he got to ask them while she was curled into his side, their legs intertwined, her communicator between them.

Her sister, Arya, had joined the circus with her. When they’d heard Robb was murdered, Sansa went to Russia while Arya ran off. They still didn’t know where she was.

Sansa went to Russia to train.

Sansa trained under the Targaryens in Russia.

The Targaryens are people Sandor should hope to never meet. If you see purple eyes, it’s already too late.

The Targaryens are damned good assassins, and they’re damned good at honing in on anger, of which Sansa held a lot of after her brother’s murder.

Sansa forced Snow to let her join him on his patrols.

The two younger Stark brothers, Bran and Rickon, are assumed dead. She didn’t elaborate on that one, which led him to adding more questions to the list, but he had more important ones before those.

They had a butler at the Stark mansion, there in part to keep Snow from destroying it and to also aid Snow in maintaining his elaborate toys. His name was Samwell.

Snow still has no leads on who murdered Catelyn and Ned.

Snow had some leads on who murdered Robb.

And, finally, Snow believes it’s the same target Sandor had been hunting for over a year.

“He didn’t fucking tell me that.” Sandor had seethed, slamming his fist into the table between them. Sansa didn’t flinch.

“You didn’t ask.” She said simply.

\-----------------

One night, there’s a little bird outside his apartment, but she’s not dangling on the railings, not teasing and light-hearted.

She’s got a limp. One arm in a sling, and to his surprise, she’s out of uniform. He’s never seen her in civilian clothes, except in those damned tabloids, and there’s something about it that makes his heart hurt- it’s so mundane, so intimate he feels like he should be honored, but he also knows that means something’s very, very wrong.

She’s still wearing her mask, underneath the hood of her plain hoodie, and he tries not to let that sting him, too.

“You didn’t tell me.” She says, standing in his kitchen, so deathly still and blank that he feels uneasy. Her voice is small, the smallest he’s ever heard it.

“You didn’t tell me it was your brother.” Sansa says, and there’s a million things that goes off in his head at that moment. 

There’s panic, because she’s hurt. Sansa Stark, who heals back in record time, who darts out of the hands of evil, who flutters above it all like the little bird she is, is hurt. Someone hurt her bad enough that it _stuck_ and it’s even worse because it’s his brother.

He’d had a sinking feeling. Every picture, every damned fuzzy image, looked clearer and clearer in his head until he recognized the slope of those giant shoulders, the slight angle at which the man walked. He wasn’t going to let himself believe that.

If he was being true to himself, it was part of the reason Snow still had him wrapped around his finger, tight on that leash. He couldn’t stop his brother. He couldn’t ever hope to. That mutant gene had skipped far over him, and he knew the only way he could pay his dues to the world was to funnel that information to someone who could stop him.

By the looks of Sansa, he was wrong on that last part.

“I wasn’t sure.” He responded, his heart hurting so bad he felt like it would fall on the table, would crawl over to her and try to fix and mend it all, all the things he didn’t break but felt like he did.

“He almost killed us tonight.” Her bottom lip is trembling, and for once, she’s without that bravado, that usual teasing she got when she flirted with death yet again. It was an unstoppable force met with the brick wall, realizing that death was much closer than she’d thought possible.

“Sam’s back at home patching Jon up. He’s- he’s bad. Real bad.” Sansa sniffles.

“Is he-”

She cuts into his words. “He’s going to be okay. He’s even faster at healing than me.”

Sandor let out a breath.

“If we had known-”

“It wouldn’t have done you any good.” Sandor said, the anger coming through his voice. “You still would have gone after him, still would’ve done this to yourself.”

He’s fucking seething, to the point he can’t see straight, and it’s ridiculous, because it’s not truly at her- it’s at his brother, at Snow, at the whole fucking city around them, asking this of her. 

“We could’ve prepared. Could’ve not shown up to a _bloodbath._ ” She shoots back, her mouth in a snarl, a way he hadn’t seen before. He wonders if she snarled at his brother like that, too.

“I wasn’t fucking sure!” He all but roars, slamming his hands onto the counter.

It’s a shit excuse, he knows that. He wasn’t sure, but he could’ve told them that. He could’ve done something. 

He just wasn’t ready to say it, to speak it into existence quite yet. He hoped that the longer he gathered intel, the longer he mulled over pictures, the more the man would change, would shift into someone else entirely, someone foreign to him.

Sansa lets out a choked sob, her hands coming to twist harshly at the hair flanking the sides of her mask. For a moment, she looks like she’s about to take it off, and it makes him still, but she just pulls at her hair, heat rolling off her in waves.

“He’s the one who _killed Robb.”_ She sobs, and he can see her hands detangle, going to slam against something, but she still herself, knowing she’d break it, shatter it, be just as destructive as she _doesn’t_ want to be. 

“I looked at him and I just knew. I just knew he killed him, and he was going to do the same with Jon.” She leaned back against his cabinets, crossing her hands and tucking her hands into her armpits. Sandor wanted to move, to console her, but he was frozen to the spot, feeling sick.

“Jon got in between us because he knew I couldn’t take it. And now Sam is trying to patch him back up, but it’s gonna be weeks until he can get into the suit again. And- that’s what happened when _both_ of us were at him.” She shook her head, her mouth turned into a harsh grimace.

“I’m sorry.” Sandor said, his voice harsh. It scraped against his throat, the words clawing out of his mouth. It was unfamiliar to him, to say those words, but in those moments, he couldn’t say anything else. He didn’t mean anything else.

Sansa just cried harder, pulling her legs up against her chest, and for once, she looked completely fragile. Completely powerless, completely scared. 

He kept repeating it, over and over, a little mantra to her: _i’m sorry i’m sorry i’m sorry_

First into her hair, when he came around the counter and hugged her while her shoulders shook, trying to absorb all that pain she was feeling. Then into her neck, when she hugged him close after tugging him into bed, craving that feeling of closeness. And then finally into the soft curve of her thighs, into the apex between them, after she crawled on top of him and quelled her tears with a need to feel something else, anything else. He licked at her, sucked at her, feasted on her until her noises turned into quiet, healing sobs, until it gave way to soft hiccups, until her legs shook and she said _no more._

And then he held her. There was no communicator tonight, no device between them. There was no clothing between them, save for that mask, which made him feel like a world away from her. But he didn’t say that, would probably never say that. It wasn’t his place, and she wasn’t his to know. He could ask his questions, could quell his thirst for knowledge, but he’d always just know _about_ her, never really know her himself.

But beyond all that, beyond his frenzied mind and churning thoughts, she slept. She slept in his arms for the first time, curled into him like a frail little bird, and he foolishly told himself that he’d keep her safe.

\------------------------

Snow is out of commission until almost two months later.

There are no talks of more information about his brother. Sansa doesn’t approach the topic when she visits. He gives her small information, on little tasks Snow gave her the okay on to follow solo. More often than not, she just comes to crawl into bed with him.

She’s changed. She’s no longer a fearless little bird. She’s felt what it’s like to fall from the nest, what it’s like to brush against the cusp of death.

He hates it, but he knows he can’t change it. He’ll protect her with every muscle in his body, but he’s only but a human.

The media has commented on the bat’s mysterious disappearance, but Sandor drops a hint to Giantsbane to brew a story to the press. He comes up with something about a trip abroad, to meet other heroes, and the media eats it up. When he tells Sansa about it she hugs him for the first time.

And on the nights she doesn’t visit, she says she is patrolling the city, just as Snow would do. 

He pretends not to know where she’s at when he hears small footsteps on his balcony. 

He pretends not to notice how most of the criminals she’s rounded up had been from his neighborhood, not too far from his apartment.

He pretends not to know when she checks in on him each night, her footsteps stilling as she listens for him.

He pretends not to notice how much she cares, how protective she’s gotten. 

It’s not his place. Just like the mask she always wears, just like the shields she puts up. 

If she ever decides to take that mask off for him, he’ll stop pretending.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Now I’m really, really tempted to write a companion piece from Sansa’s POV.


End file.
